


Universal Constants

by halfpennybuddha



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Genocide, Implied Violence, M/M, References to Suicide, Slash, Starvation, Tarsus IV, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfpennybuddha/pseuds/halfpennybuddha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something fundamental in their relationship has changed somehow, in that moment. Five People Who Left Jim Kirk and One Who Didn't. STXI. Eventual Kirk/Spock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 5

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello! So. My first foray into the Star Trek fandom. And my first 5 & 1\. Each chapter will be its own number. Please be gentle with me!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek. If I did, I would be called Gene Roddenberry or Paramount Pictures. And I’m not. And thank the universe, because if I’d had to learn how to spell Paramount in grade 1 I probably would have died from frustration.
> 
> Warnings: This will eventually be SLASH (Kirk/Spock), set in the Reboot/XI universe. In this chapter there are canonical mentions of verbal child abuse. Flames will be shared with my friends for a laugh at your expense. This is un-beta’d!

**Universal Constants (Or, Five People Who Left Jim Kirk and One Who Didn’t)**

**5**

Jim Kirk hasn't always had blue eyes.

When he was born they were hazel, and don’t change until he’s six, staying with Sam at Grandpa Tiberius' for two weeks while his mom and Frank are on Kalatos III for their honeymoon. It strikes Jim as strange. Even at his young age he's come to realize his mother isn't exactly the sentimental sort. They'd never gone on "family vacations," and didn't celebrate any birthdays or holidays besides Christmas (and even that was a bit of a haphazard, hastily thrown together affair). Their only family holos and albums had been hidden in the attic gathering dust since before Jim can remember. His family is nothing like the families of the other kids at school that Jim knows, but that doesn't bother him at all. They are unique, but they still stick together. Still have each other and love each other. Jim doesn't need to gorge himself on replicated turkey and pumpkin pie once a year to understand and be thankful for that.

Sam explains their mom's sudden change of heart on their second night bunking in their father's creaky old bedroom. (Sam doesn't like the room - says the stillness creeps him out. Like their dad could burst through the door at any moment. Jim on the other hand, who’s never known his father but through the artifacts he'd left behind, finds it comforting.) "She's prob'ly just trying to move on from Dad," he says. "'Cause Frank's supposed to be our dad now."

"Frank'll never be my dad!" Jim spits, outraged. It isn't like he hates Frank or anything. They'd played ball a few times in the yard, and when Jim had broken the banister a month ago, Frank hadn't ratted him out (though his mom had known it was him anyway). But that doesn't mean Frank could ever take the place of his dad. Jim won't ever let that happen.

Sam rolls his eyes, dangling upside down over the edge of the top bunk. "Nobody said he's taking dad's place, Jimbo," (Jim scowls more...he hates that nickname) "but he's gonna be doin' the same stuff a dad would be doin', ya know? Like taking us to school and baseball games and shit."

"Mom says that's a bad word. And anyway I'm not gunna do any of that kinda stuff with Frank. He can't make me." It's Sam's turn to scowl. With a gusty sigh he disappears back over the edge of his bunk.

"God you're such a baby sometimes." Jim isn’t sure if he’d been meant to hear the comment, as low as it is. He can hear his brother shifting under the scratchy wool blankets, the old wooden bed frame squeaking in protest. Jim wants to kick him. He hates being called a baby, and Sam knows that. Instead, he crosses his arms across his chest and turns onto his side, listening for a long while to the noises of the house; Grandpa Tiberius’ rattling snore down the hall and the wind blowing through the big oak tree in the front yard and Sam's breathing as it shallows out in sleep.

"'M not a baby." He murmurs, and hugs his pillow tight.

* * *

Half a week into their stay is when the migraine hits. Grandpa Tiberius gruffly puts him to bed at two that afternoon and shuts the curtains, coming in to check on him every once in a while with glasses of water and saltine crackers Jim can barely keep down.  
  
Sam thinks he’s faking it. Making it up. Jim can tell. Thinks he’s just pretending to be sick so Mom and Frank will hop the next shuttle home and cut their honeymoon short. But Jim doesn't have the energy or inclination to set him straight; his head hurts and his eyes hurt and his ears hurt and the whole  _universe_  hurts and by the end of the fourth day even Sam is starting to look a little worried. On the morning of the sixth, Grandpa Tiberius – checking in on him – stops completely still as Jim blearily blinks up at him. His eyelids feel heavy and tight, and the skin on his face too dry.  
  
An hour or so later, lost in a haze of pain and nausea, Jim can hear Grandpa's raspy voice murmuring to someone in the upstairs hall, the door creaking open, then soft thunking footsteps crossing to his bed.  
  
"Jimmy, little Jim, we gotta getcha to the truck m'boy. You understand? Doc Ainsley gonna give yeh somethin' for the pain, okay? But we gotta get'cha to Mercy."  
  
He hears another pair of footsteps entering the room, these making more of a sharp clacking noise that makes him whimper. Grandpa strokes his hair. His hands are huge, calloused and gnarled, dirt perpetually caked under his fingernails. But he is painfully gentle.  
  
"'T'll be alright."  
  
Jim doesn't like all the noise, but the petting feels good; makes the throbbing in his head less pronounced. He can't stop himself leaning into the touch a little. He hears a small clink of glass.  
  
"This'll put him to sleep for a few hours."  
  
Sleep is good. Jim likes sleeping. He feels a cold circle of metal press against the big vein on his neck, the sharp sting and quiet hiss of a hypo, and the world dissipates, painless and black.

* * *

The smell is the first thing Jim notices when he groggily struggles his way to consciousness. He takes a deep breath, then exhales the sharp odor of bleach and lemon attempting to mask sickly sweet disease. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. The nausea is gone, now, but he can sense a dim light pressing against his eyelids and is reluctant to open his eyes just in case it comes rushing back.  
  
The bio-bed is strangely cool beneath his skin and feels...he can't place it exactly. Not like any mattress he's ever slept on. It’s hard, but cushiony at the same time, made of some kind of foam. If he concentrates he can almost feel the microscopic body sensors assessing his vitals with every blip of the monitor above his head. Gently humming. He imagines this is what it feels like to sleep in a starship.  
  
There’s nobody else in the room. Or if there is, he hasn't heard them. But he knows someone will be there soon. Knows his mother will come. His mother always came for him.   
  
He lays there for a while, barely moving, taking time to relish in the feeling of not being in pain. Slowly he drifts back to sleep, dreaming of starships and exploration and impossible adventures.

* * *

The second time he wakes from voices whispering furiously.  
  
" - them with you for two goddamn weeks and now look at him! Jimmy -"  
  
"Not my goddamn fault, Winona. Doc says he got some sorta disease from the migraine. Horners. Old. Rare -"  
  
"I know what he fucking said, but he must have gotten it from somewhere!"  
  
"Well it’s nuthin’ to do with me and I’ll thank ye not to go ‘bout spoutin’ ridiculous accusations."  
  
"Ridiculous accusations? My son almost  _died_  -"  
  
"Mom," Sam's voice interrupts. "He's awake."  
  
Jim knew she’d come.  
  
He opens his eyes slowly, squinting and blinking rapidly to adjust to the light. Sam is sitting at the edge of a chair to his left, next to two huge windows with the shades down. His mom is flying to the side of his bed from the opposite corner of the room where Grandpa Tiberius still stands, tense as a wild animal. His huge, gnarled hands clenched together so hard his knuckles are white and Jim wishes he could tell him that it's okay, that he's okay now. His head doesn't hurt anymore and despite what his mom says Jim knows it's not fault.  
  
But she’s launched herself at the bed, scrambling to hold his hand and pet his hair and he needs to take a moment to relish in the singular focus of her attention. He tries his best to smile up at her - to study her face (paler than normal, with more lines than he remembers around her eyes) and hair (the same color as his - like wheat and the mid-afternoon sun) pulled wildly back at the nape of her neck. She recoils. Drops his hand for a moment.  
  
"They're blue." It’s a tiny whisper of disbelief. Maybe even denial.  
  
Her eyes fill with the ghosts of universal pain. Her lips press thin, as if attempting to trap them inside herself. He thinks maybe she’s trying to hide it, but it's impossible. It's already seared itself onto the back of his too-blue eyes.  
  
"Doc says it's a side-'ffect uh what he got. Ne'r be dark again."  
  
Something fundamental in their relationship has changed somehow, in that moment. It's evident as she brings him and Sam home from the hospital in tense silence. In all the times she won't look at him as days and weeks pass by. How, the day before his birthday she starts taking 'Fleet contracts off-world and disappears in a flurry of last-minute packing and activity leaving a startled Frank behind.

It’s evident in how she isn't there to rescue him and Sam when Frank gets angry and drunk and verbally abusive. How she comes home less and less as Jim gets more wild and more desperate until one lazy afternoon in May when Frank is screaming at Sam for no reason in the kitchen and Jim is in the vintage corvette revving the engine, muttering, "don’t give up she's gonna come home there's no such thing as no-win scenarios you can win her back don’t give up she's gonna come home there's no such thing as no-win scenarios you can win her back don’t give up she's gonna come home there's no such thing as no-win scenarios you can win her back don’t give up she's gonna come home -"

Her affection has been shifted. Damaged. Perhaps lost. Jim doesn't know.

There’s nothing sweeter to Jim in this moment than imagining hurting Frank back for all the hurts he's inflicted for the past five years. This is his dad’s car anyway, and he likes to think that his dad would understand that it's necessary to destroy it if it means that Frank can’t have it and mom will finally come home again. The engine roars as it bursts through the garage door, masking the crack of splintering wood knocking hard against the windshield. He sees Frank, drunkenly shouting and waving a fist, tripping down the porch steps, and gives him a huge grin and a cheery middle-finger as he guns it forward down the dusty drive.

He wonders where her love has gone, and if he can ever find it again. Why it left in the first place. Why  _she's_  left in the first place. But either way, he can’t give up. Won’t give up.

He’s startled when the roof tears itself away and whoops at Johnny Miller as he tears down the road towards the quarry. He ignores the cop warning him with flashing lights and sirens and a robotic voice calling, “Halt! Citizen!”

“Five, four, three, two –“ the words drown beneath Ad-Rock and Mike D and MCA. A huge spike of adrenaline and Jim is flying. Dirt rocks scrape unforgiving against his skin as he scrambles to stop his forward momentum. There’s a moment just as his legs have gone over the edge that his heart is pounding so goddamn hard he can’t hear anything else and the numbness in his limbs makes him think he’s really died. A deep, microscopic part of him wonders if that would really be a bad thing.  
  
Jim still doesn't know why the color of his eyes really matter at all.


	2. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello everyone…next installment of Universal Constants coming right up. I just wanted to say you guys have been awesome – even though only one person reviewed, it still made me really happy to get notifications when someone gave kudos. I hope this next chapter won’t be disappointing! And I did want to give a special shout-out to Melisoura – I know I replied to your review, but still. You helped get this cranked out on time. I hope to get the next part done in a week, but I want to warn people right now that my life is so crazy at the moment (I graduate this quarter) and I have about 3 essays that need to be finished in the next couple of weeks so I apologize in advance if I’m a little late! 
> 
> Dedication: Normally I don’t do dedications, but this was a really upsetting week for me – my sister lives in Oklahoma City, which is only a few miles away from Moore, Oklahoma where that devastating tornado hit on Monday. If she hadn’t been attending a funeral in West Virginia, she would have been driving home from work directly through the tornado’s path. Of course I’m just relieved she’s safe, but I know that there are a lot of folks down there who weren’t so lucky, so I wanted to dedicate this chapter to them (even though they most likely will never read it) and ask readers to keep them in their thoughts.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of the characters (though the OC’s are mine) and I don’t make any money off of writing! Star Trek is owned by Gene Roddenberry and Paramount Pictures, etc. 
> 
> Warnings: This chapter contains homophobia, angst, implied suicide of a minor original character and religious themes. Also boy kissing. If any of this offends you, or is a trigger or something, please be warned. Nothing is explicit and everything PG-13 at most (I mean come on…they are children). This story is un-beta’d. Flames will be shared with friends for a laugh at your expense!

**Universal Constants (Or, Five People Who Left Jim Kirk and One Who Didn’t)**

**4**

It isn’t like Jim really knew her.

She was a few grades above him in school and Will’s sister to boot and even though Will is his best friend that doesn’t mean anything. Actually, Jim thinks she only had one friend – a girl named Marganit transferred here from Chadash Tel Aviv at the beginning of the school year.

He remembers she was quiet. Smart like he’s smart. The irritating-teachers-by-pointing-out-all-of-their-mistakes kind of smart. But where Jim always sets “unreasonable goals” for himself (his latest math project is to change shield-generator formulae to reflect minor fluctuations in ion storms) according to school counselors, she was content to soak in as much information as possible and just…keep it there. Locked inside of herself. Jim was baffled by it. Still is.

She was a handsome girl, but not particularly beautiful. There was something unpleasant about her face that reminded him of his mother after his eyes turned blue, so whenever he was at Will’s house and she came in whatever room they’d decided to inhabit, Jim had always gotten surly and tense. He doesn’t know why, exactly. He doesn’t know if he regrets it, but he thinks not. It sounds cruel, he knows, but he also knows if it had been Will instead of Amber he wouldn’t ever be the same again and he doesn’t particularly want to change. Changing would mean that Frank and all the other adults in his life that tell him he’s worthless have won, and Jim is nothing if not a stubborn fucker. He refuses to change for anyone.

And he doesn’t understand wanting to die, either. He wonders if his dad felt that way as he was flying headlong into that ship – not because he was miserable but because he wanted to save all those people. Wanted to save his mom…wanted to save him. Jim thinks if someone were in that position he could understand. He’s never really felt like that himself, though. Even at the quarry a year and a half ago, when he had that moment where he thought he was dead, he didn’t particularly want to die. There’s a big difference, he thinks, to wondering if you’d be better off dead and actually seeking death. Sam doesn’t get this at all, and Jim is positive that Frank would be the first to say that the world would be better off without certain “nobody’s” causing mayhem in the house. He doesn’t know what his mom thinks. She never came home.

But Amber wasn’t in a situation like that. She wasn’t trying to save anyone. She was…Jim doesn’t know what she was. She didn’t leave a note or anything, like most people he’s heard of that commit suicide. It bothers him, especially because Will is so broken up about it, but also because he wants to understand.

* * *

 

Jim sits with Will at the quarry a few days after it happened. It’s cold, and they’re both bundled in thick jackets and hats to stave off the chill of the dry February air. Will is mostly silent and sullen, his attitude reflecting the flat grey clouds covering the wide expanse of sky. His face is paler than normal so that the freckles stand out on his cheeks and his eyes appear sunken and bruised, probably from crying. He isn’t crying now, though, just staring out over the edge of the quarry, picking at some brush weed with his gloved hand. His eyes are blue like Jim’s eyes, but he was born with them. Jim wants to make him forget, like he can’t forget, what toll death takes on the living. Wants to kiss him until that look goes away forever.

“My parents set the funeral for this Saturday.” His voice startles Jim, cracking a little towards the end and cutting through the noises of rustling grass and the hallow moans of the wind echoing in the quarry. Jim frowns.

“You have to go?” Will turns abruptly, his eyes sharp and cutting into Jim so deep he swears he can feel the ache of it in his chest.

“She’s my fucking sister.” His voice is as frigid as the air and Jim searches his face for a moment before shrugging and looking away. Will probably thinks the simple statement explains everything, but Jim doesn’t think it’s that simple. He doesn’t know if he’d attend the funeral of a family member, even if he was made to.

Jim doesn’t believe in no-win scenarios and death seems like too much of a no-win scenario to him. But he doesn’t believe in God, either, and he knows that death is a universal constant, so he isn’t really sure how to explain what he thinks to Will.

Instead, he picks at a loose thread on his sweater and shivers.

“It’s cold.”

Will sighs and drops his glare, hugging his knees against his chest.

“Then go back home.” He’s totally tense and sounds lost and resigned and Jim hates it. He misses his best friend – the one who built a fort made of dried corn stalks with him the autumn before last and who laughs when Jim does something crazy and who played Marco Polo with him at the waterhole for hours during the summer – and he doesn’t really know how to help him.

He shuffles over a bit, the frozen dust scraping the seat of his jeans, until he’s pressed flush along Will’s side.

“Not goin’ anywhere.” Jim whispers, and he knows that Will can’t hear him.

“What?”

Instead of repeating himself, Jim slithers an arm around his waist and leans over to kiss the corner of his lips softly. He isn’t sure why he did so, even though he’s been wanting to for a while. Jim is definitely a touchy-feely kind of guy, but Will isn’t at all and Jim usually respects his friend’s boundaries. Besides, a kiss is a bit more than a slap on the back or an arm around shoulders. He does have some restraint despite what pretty much every adult believes.

It has a strange effect on Will, though – definitely not the one Jim expects. He turns to face Jim with a look on his face that’s filled with so many mixed emotions it’s impossible to read. Curiosity, outrage, wonder, shyness, shock…Jim knows he hasn’t lived long enough to be able to properly assess and label them. But he stays calm in the face of the storm brewing on Will’s features and watches, his lips pressed thinly together like he’s trying to hold in a smile but he’s not actually amused.

“Why’d you…” Will begins, but doesn’t finish. Curiosity, apparently, has beaten everything else back.

“Because I wanted to.” Will’s eyebrows furrow, and he frowns in confusion.

“Boys aren’t supposed to kiss other boys. That’s what my parents say, anyway.” Jim rolls his eyes.

“So? Adults aren’t always right, you know. Take Frank for example.” Will gives him a long, considering look.

“He doesn’t actually hurt you, does he? I mean…he doesn’t smack you or anything, right?”

“No. But he calls me names a lot. And yells at me. But he’s an idiot – I don’t take him seriously. Bastard can barely even tie his shoes on a good day. I dunno what my mom sees in him.” _Not that she’s ever around to enjoy his company_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say it. Doesn’t think he has to, either. Jim’s sure Will already understands because he’s wrapped his arm around Jim’s waist now in a silent show of support, and that’s why he’s Jim’s best friend.

They sit for a while more, arms around each other, lost in their own thoughts. At least Jim is, so when Will breaks the silence he almost jumps.

“I guess you have a point, though.” Jim turns to him, puzzled.

“About what?”

“Well,” he begins, slowly and cautiously, still looking out towards the horizon. “Adults. They’re not always right.”

Jim’s pulse jumps and his stomach defies biology by lodging itself in his throat. He’s very aware of Will pressed against his side, the weight of his arm comforting around his waist. He licks his lips, not taking his eyes away from Will’s face for even a moment. If he blinks it might be gone and Jim has learned never to let things like this slip between his fingers; to never take anything with anyone for granted.

“Yeah?” his voice cracks on his reply and he feels embarrassment crawling onto his cheeks with a flush. Will looks at him, then, his face oddly serious but also nervous as well.

“Yeah…so if you wanted – “

Jim doesn’t let him finish.

* * *

 

They’re not boyfriends. Will doesn’t want his parents to know for one – and if kids or teachers start seeing them holding hands or kissing at school then they’re bound to find out one way or another. Too, Jim doesn’t think he wants to be anyone’s boyfriend just yet. He’s only just turned 14, and even though kissing feels good and he wants to do it (a lot, if he’s honest with himself) he isn’t sure if he’s ready for that kind of commitment yet. Because he isn’t sure if he can be “boyfriends” and still stay “best friends” and since being “best friends” has worked out so well in the past he’s reluctant to give up the safety behind that title.

So really they just have awesome make-out sessions out by the quarry and behind the school all spring and leave it at that. Jim isn’t really experienced at all anyway – Will wasn’t his first kiss, or even his second (that was Sophia in grade 4 and I’inρ’th during the summer between grades 6 and 7 visiting his aunt and uncle on Tarsus) but he’s the best so far. Maybe it’s because they’ve been close since they were little kids. Jim doesn’t know. But he isn’t going to complain.

Amber’s funeral has passed. Even though Jim knows he won’t be able to help Will forget completely, he’s glad that he can provide a pleasant distraction.

It’s the end of February and they’re at the cinema holding hands discreetly as Bravo Perez orders a martini, shaken, not stirred, and D’Artas uses Orion dance to seduce him.

And it’s March and the weather has gotten warmer as spring arrives so Jim drags Will to the waterhole to skinny dip instead of sitting in class.

And it’s April, during a heat wave, and they’re camping out under the stars, in the field behind Jim’s house, kissing lazily.

He is surprised, though, when everything goes pear-shaped. He doesn’t know why, and curses himself for it – he’s already learned that nothing good lasts forever, and Will had been acting pretty distant for a few weeks. The more Jim thinks about it, forehead pressed heavily against the window of the U.S.S. Zephram VI, the more he can appreciate the irony. It’s almost poetic.

* * *

 

Frank’s been looking at Jim funny all week and even Sam is starting to get suspicious. But Jim doesn’t really know what’s putting the nasty smirk on his face, and he’s too distracted by Will’s weird behavior recently. His mom had forced him to join the chess club after school – the one Jim is banned from for “cheating” – and since then he’s started getting all friendly with Amber’s friend Marganit, who’s the president since Amber died.

The sun beats down hard on his back. It has been for the past three hours, but Jim can’t really bring himself to go back home. Will said he’d be here. He wouldn’t lie to Jim.

It’s almost dusk by the time he does arrive. Jim has long since settled himself on the ground facing the chasm of the quarry, away from the path, but he can hear the spokes of his bike clicking as he approaches. He doesn’t get up. Doesn’t look behind him.

Will approaches slowly, but remains standing behind Jim instead of moving to sit beside him.

“You’re late.” Jim doesn’t mean for it to sound as accusatory as it probably comes off, but he will make no apologies for it.

“I know.” Jim hears Will sigh after a few minutes, and the rasping sound of his shoes on the dust as he finally places himself gingerly at Jim’s side. “Listen, Jim…”

“Don’t – “

“I don’t want to be friends anymore. I…I don’t think we should be friends.”

Jim doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. He doesn’t look at Will. He can’t look at Will. If he does, he isn’t sure he’ll be able to keep the beast that’s clawing its way up his throat at bay.

“It’s just…what we’re doing – it’s _wrong_. I’ve been talking to Margie about it -”

Instantly, Jim is furious. The beast transforms into something different. Savage.

“What the fuck Will – “

“It’s a _sin_ , Jim! What we’re doing –“

“There’s _nothing_ wrong with what we’re doing! There’s _nothing_ wrong with –”

“– It’s _unnatural!_ ”

Jim’s head whips around to face Will, finally. They stare at each other. Jim refuses to look away from the shame on Will’s face, hoping that it stems from what he’s saying and not from what they had together but knowing that his hope is misplaced. After a beat, Will looks away and bites his lip.

“I told my mother.”

Jim feels as if he’s just dived head-first into the waterhole in dead winter.

“ _What?_ ”

He isn’t sure what this feeling is that’s making his heart slam impossibly fast against his ribs and tightens his lungs until he’s sure he can’t breathe.

“I told my mother. I _had_ to tell her, okay? I have to repent. Have to make it up to God. It’s a _sin_ , don’t you _get_ it?”

Jim doesn’t get it. Not at all. All he knows is that what he feels for Will – what he _still_ feels for Will, even if he’s being a _fucking idiot_ – isn’t something to be ashamed of. It _isn’t_ a sin. All he knows is that he can’t stay here one moment longer.

He doesn’t remember the bike ride home, but it’s almost pitch dark outside by the time he gets home and Sam is up from the couch and at his side in an instant after taking one step through the front door.

“Jimmy, Frank – “ He starts, panicked.

“There you are you little nobody. Been waitin’ for you.” Jim feels Frank’s huge, sweaty palm wrap around the back of his neck and can’t help but shudder. What makes him more suspicious than the bodily contact – because Frank will never touch him if he can help it – is the distinct lack of whiskey drowning the air around them. “Good thing you got home when you did, or we’d be late for the shuttle.”

Jim swallows, staring at Sam whose face is so pale it’s white, his teeth clenched hard and lips pressed thin.

“Shuttle?” He cracks out the question only by force.

“Yeah, see? Had myself an interestin’ talk with little Will’s mother the other day – she was very upset that her little boy’s bein’ corrupted by cert’n little shits struttin’ ‘round Riverside thinkin’ they own the place ‘n can do whatever they want, no consequences. Tellin’ good God-fearin’ folk it’s okay to be a fuckin’ shirt-lifter. A few comms later I found a solution, o’ course, ‘cause you can’t stay here spewin’ all that. So yer goin’ to stay with Winona’s sister and her husban’ for a while, on Tarsus. Happy to take you in, they said, ‘n teach you a lesson.”

Jim knows that Aunt Evie thinks Frank is full of shit, and would never punish him for doing what he knows is right. For loving who he does. But the knowledge doesn’t seem to be able to sludge through the numbness washing over him. Sam looks away.

“So c’mon you little shit. Don’ worry ‘bout grabbin’ nuthin’ either – Sammie here packed for you. Let’s get goin’ or yer gonna miss the shuttle.”

And Jim can’t even fight it as he’s led to the car, identical to his dad’s, but new. Replaced.

He wonders if they’ll replace him, too, once he’s gone.

He wonders if Will will ever understand exactly what he’s done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 2: I must say that this is a work of fiction and as such the religious implications don’t necessarily reflect on my own beliefs. Personally, I am not tolerant of intolerance, but religion itself doesn’t bother me at all. I just think that everyone should be able to be with whomever they want without feeling ashamed or persecuted (with a few exceptions, such as child rapists). Also, whoever can point out the TOS reference will get loves from meeeeeeeeee! And possibly a character named after them in the next few chapters. There will be quite a few OC’s in the next two. Also, this story will not ALWAYS be angsty, I promise, though it has turned out to be quite a bit more angsty than I had intended so far!
> 
> I won’t beg for reviews, but I will say they are very good at keeping me motivated. If you see any mistakes I’ve made, too, don’t hesitate to let me know so I can fix it!


	3. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Holy bugger you guys. This chapter was so much more angsty and intense than I meant it to be…and as such, it was a pain in the bottom to write. I am soooo sorry for the delay! 
> 
> As always, I tried to throw in as many canon references as possible, even while delving far, far from canon. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek or any of the characters (though the OC's are mine) and I don't make any money off of writing! Star Trek is owned by Gene Roddenberry and Paramount Pictures, etc.
> 
> Warnings (important!): This will eventually be SLASH (Kirk/Spock), set in the Reboot/XI universe. This chapter contains angst (LIKE WOAH), graphic depictions of (canonical) genocide, violence, and terrible, horrible things. Also inter-species boy kissing, which I don't think is horrible at all but recognize that some people might. There will be no mentions of sexual abuse in this story, except for my own raping of alien languages, translated at the end. If any of this offends you, or is a trigger or something, please be warned. I tried to keep everything PG-13. This story is un-beta'd. Flames will be shared with friends for a laugh at your expense!

  
**Universal Constants**  (Or, Five People Who Left Jim Kirk and One Who Didn't)

* * *

**2**

He isn't really sure exactly how long he's been in the hospital. A few days, probably, though it feels like forever. Sam and his mom have been in every day so far, which would be a shock to him but he doesn't think he can be shocked about anything at this point.

Now that it's over – now that he's here, back on Earth and away from Tarsus – everything seems to be going in slow motion. He's never really been able to understand Einstein's theory of time relativity until now.

Hank and Atlas, who have been sharing his room, were released to their families yesterday and he's alone now until new patients come in. He's glad; this new kind of empty silence makes him feel infinitely more comfortable than the choking anger that makes it impossible for him to speak, after they tried to pretend that everything was the same as before. After they tried to pretend that they would be his friends no matter what.

Nothing will  _ever_  be the same.

Honestly, he doesn't even know why they were admitted to the hospital in the first place. It's not like they were on the wrong list. Not like they went hungry.

They were his classmates and his friends, and now…

If he thinks about it, he can almost hear Sato-obaa chiding him for his anger.  _"Asahi-chan,"_ she would say,  _"don't be silly. What happened was not their fault. They are just as much survivors of this tragedy as you are."_ But it's not silly, and it's not the same. Not to him.

* * *

His appointed therapist is betazoid and he hates her.

He knows she can feel it, but since he has yet to utter a word to anyone since his arrival she probably thinks that he just hates the world.

"I cannot help you, James, if you do not let me."

Laughter is probably not what she is expecting from him, but he can't actually contain it. It bursts forth out of his mouth almost viciously and sounds so horrible; manic and hollow. It makes her shiver. He looks her straight in the eyes for the first time since he's met her, all traces of humour gone from his expression.

" _Zadi'uun utzai RamLaeer."_

She is obviously startled, but he can't tell if it's because he's spoken in Betazoid or if it's because he's spoken at all. His voice feels scratchy and sounds hoarse after so much disuse. Her black eyes reflect the sun filtering in through the large window of her office.

" _TemSooth Betazur?"_

He ignores her again. Obvious, stupid questions – he won't waste his energy by answering. Instead, he grips the armrest of his hoover-chair until he can feel his arms shake with the effort and watches two star finches in a cage in the corner. He can't hear them sing through the sound barrier put in place for this meeting and for some reason feels the loss acutely.

She waits patiently for him to answer, but after a few minutes realizes he won't. Out of the corner of his eye he can almost see her decision to try and reach him through what she believes to be a new opening. And perhaps it is, depending on what she does next; he's tired, after all.

" _Imyav –"_

" _bang jIHbe'"_

She probably doesn't speak Klingon, but the language is harsh and rough and suits his voice. His emotions churn violently like the viridian Tarsus dust before a storm, and he knows no better way to express them than through the language of war.

He is silent for the rest of their session, and watches the birds.

* * *

He's clawing at the ground beside Oziξas, both of them gripping handfuls of dirt and prickly cornflower skyweed and throwing it all to the side and Tom is behind them holding Kevin and they're trying to squeeze themselves inside the hollow of the namtev tree, begging a God he doesn't believe in to please let them not get caught because he's got nothing left besides them and he's –

– hungry, so hungry, but he can't feel it anymore because he's gone so long without real food and his body has learned to ignore the aching pain in his gut, but Kevin is crying softly from hunger, soft enough that the  _sirshos'im_  in their dusty uniforms won't hear, and he wonders if maybe next time they shouldn't give him as much food because the sooner he gets used to hunger the less it will hurt and he's –

– being scolded by Sato-obaa for getting in trouble at school after he's cursed at a teacher who doesn't seem to understand that he's not a fucking idiot and "no," she says, "no my  _asahi-chan_ , if you are going to verbalize such emotion you must remember that there are an infinite number of ways in which to express it; including many that those less intelligent would not understand. Such is the power of language.  _Wakatta?_ " And he nods, chagrined, while her eyes go soft and she pats his head and he –

– stares intently at the governor's face without blinking or moving while people are deathly silent around him, clinging to each other as far away from the Symmetrist's  _sirshos'im_  surrounding them as they can get, listening to the words flowing from the man's mouth,  _"…continued existent a threat to the well-being of society. Your lives mean slow death to the more valued members of the –"_ and the words are searing themselves into his mind like the burn of acid and he –

– holds her and holds her and never wants to let go and if he could he would absorb the body deep within himself and keep it locked away because she's just a baby – was just a baby – and it wasn't her fault that she wasn't able to connect with the universe and he –

– feels so good, so incredible, and the dark blue skin at Oziξas' hips is freezing beneath his fingers but starting to warm and his breath is like ice against his mouth as they pant together and kiss and kiss and even though this is only happening because his cold-blooded friend can't warm himself, this is the first time since his last day on Earth that he can't find words and he's –

– being ripped away from Aunt Evie whose voice has joined in the cacophony of screaming and shouting surrounding him and the massive movement of bodies scrambling to get away pin him against the scalding metal wall of the chamber, then down…pressed into the crumbling floor he watches – horror expanding like a singularity in his chest – as a girl a grade below him named Tammy is trampled to death so violently that her bright red blood spatters against people's bare legs, tinged blue-green from dust…and after a moment he knows deep down in the emptiness that fills him that he must get out before they spray the _masupik_   _suk'sov-dan_ and there is only death that waits him –

He screams as he wakes, arms outstretched and clawing at the air as if he really were back in the chamber and desperately trying to squeeze through the holes at the base of the wall used to drain the poison so the bodies could be collected.

It's not the first night he's had nightmares, but it is the first night he cries.

* * *

It's only two in the morning so the hospital is mostly quiet. The sterility that surrounds him is something that Jim can't seem to get used to no matter how long he's been here. After the grain-plague, the soil on Tarsus turned dry as dust – it would get everywhere. There was no escaping it. After a week or so he was almost as blue as an andorian.

His legs shake almost imperceptibly as he slowly makes his way down the corridor out of the children's ward, head bent down to protect his eyes from the harsh overhead lighting. This isn't the first time he's gone on a midnight stroll, but he's still weak so he can't move very fast. This is the furthest from his room that he's managed yet.

Nobody knows he's gone, of course. Sam had brought him a PADD for entertainment last week, and it was a simple matter of using it to create and implant a subroutine in the bio-bed's programming so it sends normal reading updates to the computer at the nurses' station instead of alarms. He could have done it when he was nine.

That doesn't mean he shouldn't be careful, though. He has no desire to be strapped to his bed at night if they catch him.

He freezes as he catches sight of a harried-looking deltoid in medical scrubs turning into the corridor at a brisk walk from one of the rooms at the end of the section. Where is he again? Adrenaline is causing his blood to thunder in his ears as he finally manages to force himself through the door immediately to his right. He hopes this isn't somewhere creepy like the coma ward or something.

The first thing he notices about the room is that it's actually lit when he enters and pulls the door shut tight behind him. It's smaller than his own room, but there's only one bio-bed which makes it seem much roomier. The walls are a tan colour, though the floor is the same sterile white linoleum, and the furniture – two end-tables and a dresser – is made of a light coloured plastic that passes reasonably well for actual wood. He notices these things out of the corner of his eye, mostly a habit by now since he's learned from Tarsus that taking in the whole of his surroundings could actually save his life. But the main focus of attention is quickly kept by the woman lying in the bio-bed, propped up against a pillow and silently reading a book. A real, ink and carbon book.

She looks up from it as he enters, confusion making her brows draw together only for an instant before the expression clears.

"Hello there." She says in Standard, her voice warm and curious. Jim doesn't answer. He shifts backwards a little, his hand still grasping the door handle, and watches as her eyes take in his hollow cheeks and the way his hospital gown hangs on his emaciated frame. She opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again after a moment and gives him a gentle smile instead.

She's not particularly stunning, but she's certainly beautiful. Her eyes are large on her delicate face, warm like rich chocolate, and framed by a few wisps of wavy brown hair. Jim finds he can't bring himself to look away, but he doesn't return her smile.

"What's your name  _nu'ri-veh_?"

He starts at her usage of Vulcan, a tiny ache starting in his chest and growing swiftly into a chasm of sorrow. It's all he can do to keep a straight face, and from the worried look that she gives him he doesn't think he's entirely successful.

"Jim  _wimish_." His can't raise his voice above a whisper but the room is quiet and her surprise makes it evident she's heard him.

"Jim? _Rom ahm. Dif-tor heh smusma,_ Jim. Amanda  _wimish. Ken-tor Vuhlkansu?"_

" _Pi'ken-tor."_

She smiles at him again, this time wide and very pleased.

"It's very nice to hear Vulcan. I've started to miss it a bit." She sounds wistful and Jim has taken two steps towards her before he's realized it.

"But you're human." He frowns, studying her closer. "Do you work with vulcans or something?"

She laughs; a surprisingly hearty sound from such a small woman.

"In a sense…I live mainly on Vulcan. My husband is Vulcan, and he wished to raise our son there."

"Your son is half vulcan?"

She nods, picks up a thin, rectangular piece of stiff, grey cloth and uses it to mark the page in her book before she sets it down beside a vase of flowers on the side table.

"There aren't many human-vulcan hybrids, of course," she begins, and gives Jim a small smile. He thinks it seems a little sad. "But there are a few hundred or so, scattered here and there. Vulcan is a large planet, and more diverse than many humans seem to think."

Jim can't help but think of the Symmetrists – at the beginning of Kodos' revolution, after the plague had destroyed all of their crops, Sato-obaa had explained to him that the Symmetrists had been originally founded on Vulcan almost a century earlier. That had been why she wasn't afraid. Why she had actually supported the rebellion. Vulcans were pacifists, for the most part, and to believe that everything in the universe was connected surely meant that all life was sacred.

How quickly they'd been proven wrong.

But he also knew that not all vulcans believed Symmetrism, just as not all Symmetrists believed that psi-null beings were worthless. Sybok had proven that. Had shown Jim, in those final moments trapped in the chamber, that the individuals could and should not be judged by the group in which they belong.

Even though Sybok had been a Symmetrist, the  _sirshos'im_  had still sentenced him to death along with the rest of the psi-null and low esper population of Tarsus. Even though Sybok himself was about to die, he saw Jim scrabbling against the drain-holes in the wall and spent his last moments of life using his vulcan strength to warp the hole big enough for Jim and Tommy and Kevin to crawl through.

Jim knew, from painful experience, that no two beings were the same.

Though he says nothing, when he comes back to himself, Amanda looks at him with such sad eyes that he wants to shy away. He sees no pity there, though, so he fidgets a little in place before meeting her gaze bravely.

"Why are you in the hospital? You don't seem very sick." The words pour out of his mouth before he can contain them, and he flinches. She just smiles at him, though, and pats the side of the bio-bed a little, gesturing for him to join her.

He hesitates.

He's only allowed his mom and Sam, and a kind doctor named Nkiruka come anywhere close to touching him physically. Even though he can't see the viridian Tarsus dust anymore – can't see the mixture of piss and shit and vomit covering the cattle enclosures they'd been herded into and forced to sleep in for days before listening to Kodos' speech…even though he can't see the colonists blood spraying after being shot with antique bullets for trying to escape, he can feel it all. Caked against his skin and the sickly sweet stench of death burned into his nostrils. Still, he can feel it. And he won't infect anyone else with that filth.

Instead, he moves towards the bio-bed slowly and stops just at the edge. He won't let her touch him, but being close wouldn't do her any harm.

And if he slowly climbs up onto the bio-bed over the course of that evening, as she talks to him about life on Vulcan and her son – though she hasn't told Jim his name – and all the interesting people she's met at the embassy, then, well, she doesn't say a word about it. And if he falls asleep a while later to the soothing sound of her voice, his fingers clutching tightly to the blanket she's pulled over him, then he doesn't think he can be blamed for that.

He wakes up the next morning in his bed, alone. He can't blame Amanda for leaving; she had told him she was being discharged the next day – that she really shouldn't have even been in the hospital in the first place, but her husband was something of a worry-wart (though he would, apparently, never admit to such a thing). And, he thinks, if his mother were anything like Amanda…if she were as loving and caring…then he can't really blame her son for wanting to see her come home. It doesn't stop a deep sense of disappointment to grow slowly in his heart, though.

It disappears, however, after he sees the ink-and-carbon book placed neatly on his bedside table.

He smiles – the first time in almost a year that he can remember – and picks it up reverently. The hard cover and spine are cool and smooth against his fingers, the title and author embossed in elegant golden script. He opens to the first page.

" _It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us…"_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you guys enjoyed this chapter – I know it delves a little bit further from canon than I like, but I thought it might be fitting I guess. Kirk never sees that Amanda is Spock's mother in the movies – never sees her picture or anything – so I thought maybe I might add a little bit of plot to this 5 & 1.
> 
> The book is A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens...I hope a few die-hard Trekkies will get the reference!
> 
> Translations (all languages except Vulcan, Klingon and Japanese are made up by me based on the few examples of the language available on the internet…if there are any websites that have a "proper" dictionary for Betazoid, etc, feel free to let me know! I took 4 years of Japanese in high school but it's been a while – and I'm hardly fluent in Vulcan and Klingon – so if I've made any mistakes please point it out so I can fix it.)
> 
> "Zadi'uun utzai RamLaeer."
> 
> Nobody can help me. (Betazoid)
> 
> "TemSooth Betazur?"
> 
> You speak Betazoid? (Betazoid)
> 
> "Imyav –"
> 
> Dear boy – (Betazoid)
> 
> "bang jIHbe'"
> 
> I'm not one who is loved." (Klingon)
> 
> "Sirshos'im"
> 
> Legendary will-o-the-wisp, a creature that eats the souls of unsuspecting desert travelers (Vulcan) this is what Jim and the children call Kodos' soldiers.
> 
> "Asahi-chan"
> 
> Little morning sun (Japanese)
> 
> "Wakatta?"
> 
> Do you understand? (informal Japanese)
> 
> "masupik suk'sov-dan"
> 
> Wet cyclone (Vulcan) – this name is my homage to the Holocaust. The gas primarily used to kill victims in the death-camps there was called Zyklon-B; Zyklon is German for cyclone.
> 
> "nu'ri-veh"
> 
> Young one (Vulcan)
> 
> "Rom ahm. Dif-tor heh smusma, Jim. Amanda wimish. Ken-tor Vuhlkansu?"
> 
> That's a good name. Live long and prosper, Jim. My name is Amanda. Do you understand Vulcan? (Vulcan)
> 
> "Pi'ken-tor"
> 
> I understand a little (Vulcan)
> 
> If I've missed anything, please let me know!


	4. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fucking Frank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Been a while, eh? Life happens, as I'm sure many of you know. Lots of changes...I've married, graduated uni, moved to the other side of the world, got into grad school...it still feels like a big long dream. But I told you I'd not abandon this story, and so here we are! I'm finally in a position where I feel like I actually have time to work on my own stuff. I can't promise the next chapters will be up in a certain time frame, but I hope to not take another 4 year hiatus and again - I won't abandon this story unless death (or perhaps terrible maiming) decides to make finishing impossible.
> 
> Because it's been a while I have completely lost all of my notes as to how this story was supposed to go and things that I wanted to include. I vaguely recall promising to include someone's original character, but I don't have the pm conversation anymore. If you are that reader please send me a new pm and I will be happy to include it in one of the next chapters.
> 
> So, on with the show I suppose?
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek or any of the characters in the Star Trek Universe, and make no money from these woks of fiction. Star Trek is owned by Gene Roddenberry and Paramount Pictures, etc.
> 
> Warnings: This will eventually be SLASH (Kirk/Spock), set in the Reboot/XI universe. If this makes you uncomfortable, there is nobody forcing you to read this. Flames will be shared with friends and family for laughter at your expense, but constructive criticism is always welcomed and sometimes even taken into consideration. This fic is UN-BETA'D.

**Universal Constants** (Or, Five People Who Left Jim Kirk and One Who Didn't)

**2**

 

Jim isn't quite sure what to expect coming home from the hospital, but the reality isn't at all like he had imagined.

 

Sam is the one to drive him to the achingly familiar farmhouse down the dusty old lane of his childhood. Everything feels surreal - a dream. Or perhaps a nightmare. Jim can't tell the difference these days.

 

A short time after meeting Amanda in the hospital, Winona returns to active duty. Jim doesn't miss her.

 

The sun shines clear and bright but the air blusters crisp and cool. Sam's rusty pickup bumps and rattles as he skilfully navigates the pockmarked drive. Neither speaks. They come to a crunching halt and the rumbling engine dies at a slight angle away from the side porch, as if the car were a frightened animal ready to flee at a moments notice.

 

Not unlike Jim.

 

He is keenly aware of every sound: the huffing of the wind against the car; the jingle of keys; the creak of rusty seat springs under old leather as his brother shifts, uncomfortable or unsure, hands still clutching the steering wheel tightly. Neither moves for a few minutes until finally Sam lets out a heavy sigh.

 

"Frank is still here."

 

"What, move out and give up Winona's monthly credit deposit? Actually having to work to feed his raging alcoholism? No fucking shocker there."

 

Through the corner of his eye Jim can see his brother suppress a smirk, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. After a moment he sobers.

 

"I tried to get Winona to let you come stay with me, but she wouldn't hear it." Jim is silent. It's not like he's surprised. That Winona might actually give a shit about his feelings or welfare was an idea he gave up years ago.

 

Sam hesitates. It's unlike him, and instantly Jim tenses, suspicious.

 

"Do you...I could come stay with you guys for a bit."

 

Rage bursts within Jim's chest and his head jerks to face Sam. His face burns, flushing in anger.

 

"I'm not a fucking baby!" He snaps.

 

A pained look crosses Sam's face.

 

"I just don't want you to have to be alone with Frank -"

 

"I can take care of my fucking self!"

 

"I never said you couldn't."

 

The tense silence thickens the air around them and Jim clenches his fists, pressing them against his thighs and turning to face the house. His voice, when he speaks, comes out strangely muted.

 

"You can't leave Aurelian by herself with Peter."

 

"Jim-"

 

"No, Sam. Don't be...you can't leave them. You can't be like..." After a choking silence, Jim huffs out a frustrated sigh, barely managing to prevent his hand from coming up to try and relieve the heavy pressure in his chest. He turns towards his brother slowly, stubborn resolved tensing his features. "Don't worry about me, Sam. I’ll be fine. Not like Frank can really do shit to me now. Before…” he trails off, unwilling to put up with the pitying, guilty looks he always gets whenever Tarsus is mentioned in conversations with his brother. “Really, I’ll be fine. I always am."

 

He wonders briefly who he’s trying to convince.

 

* * *

 

 

"Shit!"

 

Jim laughs. He can't help it, really, and wonders if it makes him a terrible person, but can't find it in himself to care. Not for Frank.

 

"The fuck you laugh in' at you lil shit?!" Frank snarls, dropping the beaker which shatters all over the floor at his feet and grasping the wrist of his rapidly blistering hand tightly as if this will block the pain.

 

Splashes of lye are soaking through Frank's coveralls and will probably start to burn his legs soon, but Jim isn't going to tell him so. Bastard can suffer for a few minutes until he gets the dermal regenerator from the bathroom. Fuck if Jim will help.

 

Jim listens to him crashing through the house and another shout of pain and takes a moment to sneer at the state of the kitchen.

 

Stacks of buckets and plastic storage containers, yards of rubber tubing, a dozen blenders, boxes of coffee filters, ice chests in every size and color, gas cans, economy size bags of fertilizer and cat litter, huge containers of lye and different kinds of acids, endless laboratory beakers and measuring cups, funnels and clamps litter the floor surrounded by stacks and stacks of rotting towels and musty bed sheets. The counters are no better - filled to the brim with industrial size bottles of acetone, isopropyl, and at least four dozen bottles of cold medicines, boxes overflowing with batteries and road flares, and huge bags of rock salt and iodine crystals. Jim isn't quite sure how or why Frank decided having a meth lab in the kitchen was a good idea, but if he’s honest with himself – and he usually always is - Frank has never been known for his good ideas.

 

He hears a huge crash from the bathroom, then the high-pitched whine of the old dermal regenerator charging for use. Carefully picking his way through the debris, Jim makes his way to the kitchen door and slams it behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

School is hardly the refuge from Frank that it once was.

 

More often than not, Jim doesn't bother to attend. The teachers don't care either way. Both Jim and the school district know that there isn't much of anything in the shitty curriculum they can teach him that he doesn't know already, and his teachers know better than to try and get Frank or Winona to care. And it's not like he has any friends left in Riverside. On the days he does show up he is surrounded by obvious whispers and pointing, which got old and tired and irritating long before reappearing in Riverside, Iowa.

 

At the beginning of the school year he made a point to hack into the school’s registration files and put himself in all of Will’s classes; he finds a kind of sick satisfaction in seeing the look of horror, guilt and shame that always glues itself to his face whenever their paths cross. When he’s particularly bored or irritable, he goes out of his way to pop up when Will least expects it outside of classes: in the arms of his cheerleader girlfriend whom Jim doesn't recognize, or when he's playing hackey-sack with his chess club friends in the wagon wheel. By far, though, the best is in the locker rooms after football practice, where he always waits to nab a locker next to Will just so he can make him see the physical scars of Tarsus.

 

Jim never actually sees him outright looking like most of the other kids, but from the way his face always looks a bit sick as he hurries into his boxers, Jim knows he’s seen them. The cuts and scrapes from hiding in trees and under inedible scrub brush; the angry red gashes from when he was caught by Hank and Atlas and a few other kids who had been in his class as they tried to drag him to the _sirshos'im_ for a handful of extra sweets; the time a bullet grazed his shoulder on the day Oziξas was killed; the vicious belting he received after getting caught stealing a quarter packet of freeze dried peas from a group of adults that had escaped the _masupik suk'sov-dan_ …

 

Jim never actually says anything to Will - just looks at him, expressionless. Watches his face crumple underneath the weight of the knowledge that his actions had such dire consequences.

 

Not that Jim actually blames him for what happened on Tarsus. He's not stupid. He's had enough therapy that he knows the fault lies only with Kodos. What he does blame him for is the conscious betrayal of his trust. He will never forgive him for destroying their relationship - their friendship. He will never forget how Will exited his life.

 

The one good thing that comes from being surrounded by the knowledge of his absent mother and brother, a meth-addicted, abusive step-father, the apathetic teachers and the obnoxious, narrow-sighted students of Riverside High, Jim thinks, is the realization that you can't trust anyone at all besides yourself to look out for your best interests. Authority will always let you down. Friends will always betray you. He won't make the mistake of trusting again if he can help it.

 

There is only so much amusement gleaned from torturing Will, so instead of school Jim finds other ways to occupy his time.

 

Sometimes he grabs some of Frank's booze and heads to the old quarry, just sitting and drinking. Watching the fields of strong, healthy grain ripple in the wind like the sea.

 

Others he wakes up early to catch the commuter shuttle bus to Cedar Rapids or Des Moines where he swipes lunch from a random corner store and wanders through the crowds, observing. On these days he likes to stay out until the wee hours of the morning, sneaking into random clubs and picking up willing bed partners for the night. Quick, meaningless fucks in begrimed bathrooms and alleys that remind him just how filthy he is: still concealed in the endless Tarsus dust.

 

Most of the time, however, he replicates himself a cold sandwich and wanders over to the ruins of the old Riverside Library. The building rests about two miles away from the farmhouse on the outskirts of town. It was abandoned by the city before Jim was born after funding for the preservation for ink and carbon books disappeared and has been untouched for decades except a few local kids and squatters who use the rotting wooden tables and chairs as kindling for fire. Though dilapidated and crumbling, the library still houses a decent collection of antique tomes squirrelled away and a number of ancient computers great for tinkering on.

 

Jim loves the feeling of the books especially. The feeling of the smooth pages covered in old languages that most people don't bother to learn - English, Spanish, French - almost completely replaced by Common. He is glad that he knows some of them... that these words will live on in the pages of these books and their original messages will be understood by someone, at least. Classics in particular seem to reach out to him; the elegance and mysteries of Conan Doyle, the dark romance of Cervantes, the frantic paranoia of Heller and Vonnegut, the macabre realities of Palahnuik and Dostoyevsky, and the fantastic intelligence of Darwin and Hawking.

 

Jim wonders if people realize just how recycled the modern stories they enjoy really are - if people really understand that the entertainment they consume is more often than not just a poorly done copy of a million other copies of the same ancient story.

 

For a while he wonders if his experiences mean he is the hero of a thousand faces in his very own variation of the monomyth, but eventually rejects this hypothesis.

 

There are no supernatural wonders in his life.

 

He is no flawless hero.

 

* * *

 

 

It's the arguing that wakes him up. Loud, angry voices echoing off the creaky wooden walls and up the stairs and underneath the gap between the floor his locked door at the threshold of his bedroom. What surprises Jim is that one of the voices is clearly Winona. Curious, he tries to focus on their words. He wonders when she got here and why she's even bothered.

 

_"-can't have a fucking meth lab-"_

 

_"-fuck I can't! It's none of yer goddamn buisn-"_

 

_"-what if something happens?! Jim is-"_

 

_"-you actually give a shit 'bout that worthless freak-"_

 

_"-not the fucking point, Frank! This is my house, my reputation in Starfleet-"_

 

Jim shivers, tuning out the unsurprising but still unwelcome reminder of Winona's priorities.

 

His room is chilly and dark. Winter has mostly retreated from the encroaching spring bringing warmer weather, but it still gets pretty cold at night and the window is open a crack. A soft breeze makes the threadbare curtains flutter away from the wall reminding him of a ghost costume Sammy had made for him one halloween when he was a child. The moon, partially covered by low clouds and blocked by the thick branches of the budding oak on the side of the house, oozes across the dusty wooden floorboards and illuminates the cluttered wooden desk on the far side of the room.

 

He sighs and tosses his patchwork quilt to the side, exposing his chest and legs and the stained fabric of the mattress beneath him to the cold. It seems to surround him like water, sucking all the warmth from beneath his bare skin.

 

All of the sheets in the house are long gone - sacrificed to Frank's latest enterprise.

 

He has to get out of there.

 

After throwing on his clothes from yesterday, heaped in a pile at the side of his bed, he grabs a thick sweatshirt from the back of his chair and a worn backpack he brings everywhere stashed behind his dresser and bursting with dehydrated protein packs and water bottles. Two glass jars of cheap moonshine clink against a scratched and worn PADD at the bottom.

 

He opens the window - brute strength overpowering the moaning resistance of the wood panes scraping against their damaged frame - and in less than a minute he falls to the gravel driveway from a low tree branch with a crunch.

 

Jim can see that Winona has brought a Starfleet car - a white, sterile monstrosity with dark tinted windows and special blue plates. He wonders how long she plans to stay this time.

 

The walk to Shipyard Bar near the Starfleet shipyard and base is a long one, but Jim relishes in the apparent solitude.

 

He looks up as he trudges along, naming stars and constellations and the planets in the star systems visible to the naked eye, and knows that he is not truly alone. Never is and never will be, despite the lies the atmosphere tries to tell him when the light of the sun blocks the universe from the sky.

 

After half an hour or so, the inky blackness is interrupted by a flickering neon sign and an old fashioned windmill covered in lights announcing the bar up ahead. It is an insignificant speck in the grand scheme of the universe, Jim thinks, drowning under the weight of the stars above it. But he is also insignificant, so perhaps it's fitting.

 

As he draws closer he can hear the pounding flood of music through the door, propped open to alleviate some of the heat generated by the mass collection of bodies shouting, drinking and finding entertainment. The bar itself is a ramshackle wooden affair of two stories, probably a converted 21st century farmhouse if he isn't mistaken. As he steps through the door he notices that the inside certainly reminds him of a permanent houseparty with its throngs of Starfleet ensigns and gaggles of aliens and the occasional townie clutching their booze as they crowd into the stuccoed white rooms covered in old paintings and posters and Starfleet recruitment posters.

 

On his way to the bar he spots an Orion girl who gives him a once over and an obvious wink. He smiles and changes course.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Jim makes his way home he is more than a little drunk and quite satiated.

 

The steel blue sky is starting to warm and brighten as the sun rises slowly, and he can finally make out the shadows of shifting wheat and corn swaying in the wind. The dirt path he takes back to the farmhouse lays hidden among endless fields. It's a bit longer than the main road he took last night, but he's almost glad. The fresh air will help him sober up a bit, hopefully, just in case Winona is still there. Not that she would give a shit if he was drunk, but he isn't going to risk it.

 

He stumbles a few times, tripping over potholes and random stones, but doesn't fall until he's almost there.

 

A huge bang from the direction of the house perforates the quiet sunrise, causing the birds in the field to scatter in a cacophony of frightened cries and startles him so much he lurches backwards, throwing out his hand to catch himself before his head hits the ground.

 

He winces in pain from the rocks and dirt embedded in the palm of the hand he used to break the fall, but makes no noise and pushes those feelings aside. Looking up over the tops of the fields he notices a thick plume of dark smoke rising steadily into the sky followed quickly by the acrid stench of smoke.

 

Fear and adrenaline replaces the feeling of intoxication and Jim feels a cold sweat form on his brow. Pushing himself to his feet he drops his backpack with a thud and charges forward towards the farmhouse.

 

His father's home.

 

His home.

 

It doesn't take very long; only a hundred yards or so and he breaks through the row of corn on the edge of the yard and stops. His breath catches in his chest.

 

Winona's car is gone from the drive, but Jim can see Frank's mustang parked through the open door of the garage.

 

No Frank in sight.

 

An explosion of rolling fire expands outwards through the kitchen window eating the fresh oxygen and causes windows in the dining room to burst. A huge wave of heat to pours over his skin and he squints away from it, shielding his face with his injured hand.

 

"Fucking Frank." he whispers, throat raw from drinking and the harsh smoke. The house is on fire and Frank is probably inside.

 

He stands and watches it burn.


End file.
